by Liam

This evenings moon is sharp as a razor,  

Its silver blade high in the night-bound sky,  

Slicing through the dying twilight’s soft creator,  

Cleaving day, as it bids its last goodbye.  

  

Oh, how heaven shivers at this touch, 

So cold ethereal, yet fierce and bright,  

With edges keen that knew the stars too much,  

Unveiling worlds observe the crime of night.  

  

A single drop of angelic blood did spill,  

A gentle stain to mourn the sun’s slow death. 

Spreading pink among the clouds, serene and still,  

A crimson tear upon the evening’s breath.

 

  

The night drapes on, a shadowed velvet cloak,  

While poised the moon’s razor dangles, 

Me to provoke.

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